Dean's Dreams
by Caladrius
Summary: Dean's Dreams are short mini fics that are just that, Dean's dreams. Sometimes they are nice, sometimes they are sad. Sometimes they are memories, sometimes they are the embodiment of all he fears (and graphic). But they all have one thing in common-they all revolve around Sam.
1. Sam's Hair

**(no warnings for this one.)**

**Sam's Hair**

* * *

"Stop wiggling."

"Dean-"

"Just...just sit still or I'm gonna take off an eyebrow or worse. You want an eyepatch?"

A giggle. "I could be a pirate."

"No you couldn't. You're five, Sam. You'd look damn ridiculous, now just...Sam!"

"Okay!"

Dean huffs.

"Who complained he couldn't read his precious chapter book because his hair was too damn long? Huh?"

Dean snips the air a couple of times with the med kit scissors. Sam's butt won't settle because he's five and all the world is big and wonderful and amazing and engraved on paper. And he's found that out and he's ravenous.

Like monsters are ravenous. Like the things Dad kills...like the thing that burned all of Mom's skin and flesh and hair from her bones.

"Okay now." He goes in with the scissors.

"Dean, don't make it _too_ short."

"You let me be the judge of that, okay? Now stop tryin' to talk to me when I've got two blades to your face maybe?"

Sam's lower lip juts out. He really concentrates. He puts his hands in his lap and he's a good kid, really.

"Ready?"

Sam nods. He looks up. He's not afraid of the scissors, like, at all. Because he trusts Dean. He _trusts_ Dean to do the right thing. To keep him safe. To not let him be a one-eyed pirate kid in kindergarten.

"Okay."

The first snip. And the second and third and Dean's on this like target practice. As if the world hangs in the balance of a haircut, because he'll never hurt Sam. And if Sam wants to see things so clearly, then he's going to no matter what. But that world is going to push into his space whether he can see it or not.

Whether Sam finds it out from Dad or not.

Sam never asks Dad to cut his hair. It's like they both know, Sam and Dean. Dad's a great hunter but a sucky barber. And Dean never can be sure how much Dad has been drinking, and yes, Dad's an awesome shot. Steady as they come. But Sam's head isn't a monster's head.

Maybe Dean doesn't _want_ Sam to see clearly, and that's why he's got to be a shaggy dog before it gets cut. Maybe he never _wants_ Sam to know that the world is full of danger and monsters and fire and death.

"Almost done. You're being a good kid, Sam."

Sam won't move, but he's happy with the compliment. Dean can see the corners of his little mouth turning up. He's so easy to please.

"_Dean, cut my hair. I can't read my book."_

Pieces of Sam fall away onto the motel floor. They are the leavings of a boy turning, by strands and inches and moments, into a man who will never be able to come back to this moment of innocence again.

"There."

Dean pulls the scissors away. He swooshes his hand through Sam's slightly less-floppy hair.

"Whaddayou think?"

Sam draws a breath. Looks around with a gasp as if he was blind up until two seconds ago. Like the world is suddenly a new thing to explore and to prize.

"I can _see_!"

"Yeah? No eyepatch this time, Blackbeard."

Sam giggles and slides off the chair so he can run to the bed. So he can get his book out of his bag and read it. Not to the bathroom to see what he looks like, no, because Sam trusts Dean. Trusts that he got it right. And, of course, Dean gave him the gift of sight just now...

The big brother sighs, reaches down to the small clumps of hair on the floor. They tickle his fingertips. Dead pieces of Sam...pieces of Sam he'll be forced to throw away...

* * *

"Dean..."

It tickles. The hair tickles.

"Holy crap, Dean. Are you alive?"

Dean opens his eyes. He's not reaching for the gun because it's Sam's voice. Just Sam.

Sam's grown up face is inches from his own. Floppy hair curtains them from the world. For a second, Dean can smell the toothpaste Sam brushed with, his aftershave. His breath and his _life_.

"Dude..."

Dean's one word breaks the spell. Sam makes a face, backpedals fast half-laughing. Morning breath.

The moment is over.

"Dude, that is _awful_."

"You asked for it."

"I had to make sure you were still _breathing_. When did you get in last night?"

_Vodka. Whiskey. Beer chasers. Neon lights making trails of bright licorice. Red lipstick smile, a fingertip on his thigh._

_But no. Sam's hair is getting so goddamn long...Someone has to stay home. Cut that hair._

He watches Sam pack his things all long limbs and long hair and still shaking his head at the _awfulness_ of Dean's breath

"Late. Early. Whatever. Something."

Sam looks up. He's detecting a tone. Dean buckles it down, rolls over so his brother can't look at his face.

"You feeling okay? Need an aspirin?"

"Nope. Coffee."

Dean checks his phone. Holsters his gun. Puts away his bowie.

Sam's left hand is an imprint on his shoulder. The other offers a paper cup steaming with an aroma Dean craves. He takes it and looks up.

"Seriously, dude. You okay?"

"Sam."

"Yeah?" He sits down on the bed opposite Dean. He settles, ready to listen. His eyebrows are halfway up his head. He's thinking they're about to have a talk, hands clasped in his lap. Sitting still. Waiting patiently for Dean to begin. To cut. To open his eyes to the world.

"Just lemme cut it, man."

Sam rolls his eyes but he laughs. The tension leaves him and he stands up. Another moment Dean kills.

"Just stop asking, Dean. It's fine. I like it better this way."

_Yeah. So did I. Once._

Dean gets up. The new day begins.


	2. Sam's Touch

**(Non graphic depictions of M/F sex in this one)**

**Sam's Touch**

"_Don't touch me."_

It's pressing all around. Moving, laughing, grabbing, shouting, stinging-The world. It watches. It _judges_. It's full of stupid, useless, innocent, powerless living bodies that rub up against him, that invade his world.

"_Don't touch me."_

"Hey, Winchester."

Dean turns around. He's in a locker room in a middle school somewhere. Oh, _this_ place.

"What happened to you?"

He knows this kid's face, his blond hair, his name. Frank. The other boys called him Frank. Frank is lean and muscled and plays JV baseball with the high school kids. He's special, stands out. Dean doesn't.

Until now.

They all had to change for gym and Dean doesn't have many changes of clothes, but he has this one t-shirt that he'll use over and over until it can get washed, whenever he can get around to washing it.

Dean sees the eyes examining his naked torso. Frank sees the scars. The bruises. The recent scrapes from his lessons with Dad. Dean thought they were badges of honor-marks of courage, of will. But in Frank's eyes he sees judgment, and he feels naked and vulnerable and shamed.

He doesn't know why and he hates it. So he puts on his t-shirt. His flannel. His jean jacket and he walks out of the building and he doesn't stop and the world slides by and he huddles in his clothes because Frank's eyes touched him and never again will Dean let them judge his scars and his bruises and his badges because they will never understand their _value._

"Dean..."

Dean wakes up to something warm on his hand.

Sam is ten and he's standing by Dean's hospital bed. He looks fucking traumatized because there are wires and cords and bandages and beeps and strangers touching his big brother. They're tying him up and Dean is so beat, so loose on painkillers that he can't fight it and he won't because Dad had said to stop. But Sam was the one that saved him. Saved them both from the monster that almost killed them and he doesn't even remember doing it.*

"M'okay, buddy."

"No, you're not. You almost _died_, Dean. You were bleeding and your arm was broken so _badly_ and you wouldn't stop _bleeding_."

Sam's eyes are glistening and wet. The warmth is on his hand where Sam is touching him, holding him with both of his palms. It's a lifeline. It blocks out the rest of the world until it's just two halves of the same. It's Sam's touch and It's why Dean's alive and it's just...good...

Dean relaxes..

In the darkness he's moving, thrusting, and the pressure feels good. Her voice is quiet, _into it_, and that's enough. Her fingertips are running down his back, grabbing his thighs and he's lost in the warmth, the tang of the edge of a fingernail across his skin.

"God, baby..."

She doesn't even really know his name. She calls him baby because she probably calls _everyone_ baby, and that's okay. He's a nameless face, an hour or two of pleasure and nothing more..

Her calf is on his shoulder. They move like boats in a tempest. He'll sink below her waves in anonymity...

"_Don't touch me..."_

He needs the darkness when she puts his hands on him. When she feels his stomach and she kinda croons, it's hot. It's good, but it's only the surface, and he'll never let her see the scars that go to his bone, to his core-the bruises that poison his blood and make him a _hero_. He's wrecked and he'll never show her, but he'll feel the softness of her breasts, the taste of her neck, because, god, he needs a connection, needs to fall over the edge with someone but...

But only this much. Only for now. And Dean doesn't even know her name either because it's dark and her soul is something he won't touch because he has nothing that he's willing to give and she has nothing that he actually wants.

And in the end he's exhausted from trying this much. He's tangled in blankets that pull him away, become a barrier to hide behind.

The covers shift. The bed sinks, but so very little.

"Dean? Are you awake?"

He wasn't. He is now.

"Yeah."

"I know I said I wanted to sleep by myself but..."

Pause. Because Sam thinks he's a Big Kid, but he's so not.

"Bad dream?"

He sees nothing but he can _feel_ six-year-old Sam nodding.

"Get in here."

Dean opens the covers and Sam's there. His head burrows under Dean's arm. Dad's gone and that always makes them both uneasy, though they'll never say it. But it doesn't matter because for years they slept together, Sam in the crook of Dean's arm because it was safe there, because Dean knew how to shoot and deal with the recoil of a .45 by the time he was nine and the gun was under _his_ pillow anyway. And Sam doesn't know all the things about the life, but he knows it's safest near Dean.

"What'd you dream about. D'you wanna talk?"

Sam's so warm.

"It was about Dad."

Dean tenses, wishes it had been maybe about unicorns and space aliens-shit that Dean at least believes don't exist.

"What about Dad?"

Pause.

"I had a dream that Dad never came back."

Ugh. Dean's gut clenches. He has dreams like that too fucking much, and _he_ _knows_ what Dad does. _Jesus, Sam. Why do your nightmares gotta be so real?_

"Well, that was just a dream, Sammy. Of course he's comin' back. Soon. Might even be tomorrow."

Sam's got a hand wrapped in Dean's T-shirt. He's kneading it anxiously. Dean can hear both their hearts beating in this memory. Was that possible?

"You think so?"

_So hopeful._

"Yeah, man. It's okay. You just gotta sleep. When the sun comes up, everything will look better."

It even sounds like he believes it.

"Yeah, okay."

Dean wraps his arms around his brother who in turn sinks into him like it's the most natural thing in the world. He feels better. Sam feels better. Why'd he have to start getting all independent anyway?

Sam falls asleep instantly. A fucking miracle, because the kid doesn't sleep well, and Dean freezes, doesn't want to wake him. Wants him to stay here where he's safe, forever. Where Dean can keep a hand on him at all times and know that _Sam's okay_.

* * *

Dean floats to the surface. Something's not right, he knows it before he even opens his eyes.

Empty. The bed. Sam?

Dean's up, he's flapped the covers. It was once warm but now it's just the cold suss of cheap motel sheets.

Thrumming pulse of blood in his throat. A disoriented sense of loss and his fingers scramble around the bottom of the bed to find no purchase-No tiny baby brother lost in the sheets. No one.

The darkness of the motel room is almost absolute-only the digital gleam of a cheap clock next to him shows him a second bed with a lump far too broad to be Sam.

Dad.

Right. Because it's 3am and _Sam is gone._ He wasn't spirited away by some monster, he _left_, and Dean isn't comforted by that fact. The heat of his hands, the twist of his t-shirt, and feel of his _presence_ is _missed_ in a way he can't define because he never had to understand it until now.

A part of Dean has cut itself away from him and it took the better half. All that remains is the shell.

Dean lays back. He turns over to escape but it's pressing all around. Moving, laughing, grabbing, shouting, stinging-The world. It watches. It _judges_. It's full of stupid, useless, innocent, powerless living bodies that rub up against him, that invade his world.

And now Dean is powerless to stop it.

* * *

* From my long story "Boogeyman" because it's head canon now.


	3. Sam's Blood

**(Okay, some ickiness ahead. Warnings for rape triggers, incest, blood...just all kinds of hell stuff)**

**Sam's Blood**

He's at the bottom of a sticky black-red press of slick bodies, massed in agony, moaning. He keeps still because they are coming, _they always come,_ and the others don't know so they grapple and reach like wounded animals and they tear and nails like knives dig into his cuts. His stomach is open. He's holding things inside but quietly quietly quietly like a dead thing because the rack is bad. It's madness and ache and euphoria, but the pit is so much worse.

He's suffocating but there's never been air here. He can't make himself understand that. He's not allowed to understand that. He's only allowed to know that he'll pleasure them all, give up his horrors for their amusement, and then it's back onto the rack for their amusement and then back into the pit in a neverending cycle and this is hell this is hell _this is hell._

Peeled away. The body above him. A woman, maybe a man, _whocareswhoknows _is gone. A slick slap of meat and hoarse cries that sound like agony and ecstasy and death and gore. They don't discriminate They don't care. They've been here longest and they know how to take what they want.

He tries to be soft. Smooth. Useless and invisible. He breathes (_not breathing_) the scent of blood, the taste of meat half cooked from the heat of more meat. He doesn't exist.

_I don't exist I don't exist_

_Dean..._

They've found him.

They always find him.

He holds his insides in. They take his mouth and his tongue and _rule_ him. His legs are useless but he scrabbles in the thick red bubbling mass of mutilated bodies _not real bodies_ of the pit floor. He shies away from the probing touches, tries to disappear but they are whispering sweetly to him. He tastes delicious. He's good _so good be good be evil be damned_. And they they pull his hands away and they are inside him, stretching, ripping, _loving_ every morsel, slipping his guts around them and he can't even scream because it feels _wrong_ in ways that even a soul can't define. They hold him down and he's gasping in the blood. There is nothing he has that they can't have. And they're going to have it. They tell him over and over and over again that they are going to have him and he knows it but he can't make it stop because this is _hell...and he has to get out and HELP ME, SAM..._

* * *

Alastair hands him the knife with the jagged edges. It's Dean's favorite and Alastair loves him and he knows. Hell is blood and damnation but the worst is for those who can't embrace it _who won't embrace it_ and he gave in a long long time ago because the rack was bad but the pit was unbearable. Because those touches that reached into him and _used_ him were somehow worse than having skin flayed from his soul.

"_Make me proud,"_ Alastair says in that way, with that voice, and Dean smiles because he'll make him proud. Nothing exists but to make Dad proud. He'll do what he's told and be fucking _good_ at it, and the bubbling blood and the screams and slick slap of bodies won't reach inside of him.

So Dean works...

Hell is pleasure and pain. It's the pain that's pleasure that lets him know that he's completely lost now. He's done. He's becoming one of _them_ if he hasn't already. But he won't go to the pit to take what is his because his work is here. His task is _now_. He's a beautiful instrument and he slides the blade, rough, around this one's face because he didn't like the face until it was shredded and frayed at the edges. He pulls the skin and it's almost like the face is floating in front of the head, not attached to it.

Alastair is an artist and appreciates art. When his mouth claims his, when his teacher tears at the inside of his cheek with his teeth, he's demonstrating his _appreciation_ and Dean shudders with joy that he can be so good. So _good_ at being so _bad._

And it's every moment of eternity. He forgets his name and he forgets his past-there is just this. He hates himself, he thinks, and he's so fucked up (_those were my words_) that he can't even recognize his soul anymore. There is just blood and cries and shiny slick slap of flesh and knives...

Until.

"_Dean?"_

He stops. Dead stop. The new body on the rack. The new one (_because he gets all the new ones_) is staring at him. Wrists shackled body shackled soul beaten and bloody (_prepped_) and on his rack.

Green eyes in scarlet.

He stops because...

Alastair laughs. _"What's wrong, son? See a ghost of a former life?"_

He can't process. Images of floppy hair and a shy smile and a laugh and a flash of angry eyes and lanky arms and hands holding a beer hugging him. Hugging him.

"_Dean...Dean?"_

The body knows it now. It's straining. That naked soul all bruised and wet pulling at shackles even though _useless_ because he knows. _He knows_!

"_Dean it's me. It's Sam. It's _me_."_

No.

No. No no no no no nononono.

The delicious scent. The shiny rivulets of blood. He can't stop it he just _can't_. God, why can't he _stop? _ This is wrong. _Is this wrong?_ This isn't happening. This never happened this isn't him. This isn't...

"Sam?"

His voice feels so weird. He hasn't used it in ages upon ages upon ages.

The body is crying. He sees the water mingling with the blood and it's so lovely, want to run a finger through it and _taste_ it.

"_Yeah. Yeah...God."_

"How?"

Can't say anything else. Won't say anything else. He's no longer a thing that needs to think or have these beautiful memories of laying on the hood of the Impala looking at stars, his shoulder warm from Sam's shoulder.

"_I'm...I'm sorry. I tried. I tried to trade places with you. I just...I tried to _trade_..."_

Remembers screaming Sam's name for years and years and years because he was Dean and he needed Sam and that was what he knew. Sam had to get him out. But then Sam never came and Dean had to survive...and he gave up "Dean" to be Alastair's lovely tool and he was happy to stop believing because it _hurt_ to believe. It _hurt_ to be Dean...

But Sam...

Sam is trying to explain to him what went wrong, why he's here, but he doesn't care. Sam warm and close and lovely and bleeding has gotten his attention in every way.

Alastair hands Dean his favorite knife. He whispers _"This will be your most beautiful work..._" and it _will..._

"_Dean, please..."_

"Sam..."

Hell is madness, ache, and euphoria. _Sam _is his madness, ache, and euphoria...

The first taste of Sam's blood comes from his neck. The cut is small and neat because he'll work up to it. Sam barely groans but when his lips have licked a wicked line up the trail of red to its source, he can't leave it because this is his masterpiece.

"_Dean...Stop. You don't...you don't want to do this..."_

It's a groan.

It _makes_ Dean want to do this...

He drinks until his belly feels warm with the tingling taste of brother's blood. Alastair laughs but Dean knows he _wants._

_Too bad. Mine. My masterpiece..._

Sam doesn't understand what he must become here, but he will show him. Sam resurrected that name and now he has a _responsibility_...

He glides the knife around Sam's collarbone. The body jerks and it's gorgeous. They both shiver at the goodness of it. He runs a finger through it, fascinated by it, paints a lovely line of red down Sam's chest to his naval.

He steps close.

They are chest to chest. Sam is trembling. He's saying things like _"Dean, please. You can stop this"_ but he doesn't _want_ to stop.

Sam's eyes are beautiful.

He kisses his brother on the mouth, tastes his breath as Sam gasps and then he slides the jagged knife into his brother's guts where it's _so fucking warm_..

His thoughts don't even feel like his own anymore except he knows they are. They bubble up from inside him and he embraces them as he's embraced his new life...

_Sam, I love you...I love you. I'll make you beautiful. I'll never let you go. I'll become a god for you. I'll be the fucking devil himself if only I can have you...if only I can keep you..._

Dean carves him. He rips him. And Sam stops screaming. He moans because Dean's fingers have turned pain into something surreal. Dean's knife has shown him beauty. Sam's blood heals him. He sinks into that flesh, pushes into it gently, opens Sam to his core. Ribbons of his brother's skin are exquisitely braided and tied around Dean's neck to prove that they are _one_ and Alastair is _jealous_. Jealous because Sam belongs only to Dean. And Sam will never go into the pit because Dean will never _never_ expose him to those other touches. Because he _is _Dean and Sam's blood is _his _blood and Sam is his masterpiece and forever they'll bleed together forever and forever and forever...

Everything washes away in a thick warm haze that's almost comfortable...

* * *

Dean opens his eyes. He's woken up again for no reason. He takes stock: 5:30am. Gun under pillow. Knife in between mattresses. In Boise (he thinks).

And he's got a hard on.

Great.

Dean needs a shower anyway. He feels...gross for some reason he can't quite put his finger on, so he peels off the covers, stands up to head to the bathroom to get it over with.

He gets as far as standing up.

Sam's half asleep and he tosses and turns once. He's wearing a V-necked T-shirt and there's a long line of skin where it reaches up into messy hair.

Dean gasps.

It's hot and burning suddenly in this place and he's going to be fucking sick. Sick to his stomach all of a sudden, what the hell? He barely makes it to the toilet in time. When it's over and he's gasping and trying to not be so fucking uncool about it, trying to get his shit together so Sam thinks everything is all great in Returned-From-Hell Deanland, Sam has to walk into the bathroom and witness it.

Dean wants Sam to make a joke about how he can't hold his liquor so Dean can make some lameass response and ha ha ha we're all good! But Sam's on his knees next to Dean.

"Dean! Shit. Hey, are you okay?"

And then Dean realizes he's shaking like a fucking junkie. He doesn't want Sam's hands on his shoulder, feeling his forehead. He wants to just...to just get Back To Normal.

"I'm okay...I'm okay..."

_What the actual fuck happened?_

"Dean..."

"I said, _I'm okay,_ Sam!"

He pulls away like Sam's touch _burns_ him and wipes the back of his mouth with his hand.

Silence. _Thank fucking God._

Dean breathes. Sam watches him breathe and breathes.

"I'm good. It's nothing, okay?" Dean's hand is out, palm down, pressing on the air, keeping his voice calm.

Sam stands up.

"Okay, man."

He reaches out. He squeezes Dean's shoulder in that Sam way that says _"I'm here for you"_ and then he exits the bathroom.

Dean sees only himself in the bathroom mirror. Just his reflection.

He looks like shit, but at least the hardon is gone...


	4. Sam's Feet

**(no warnings)**

**Sam's Feet**

Dean looks through the glass slipper.

Why the fuck is it called a slipper? How can a slipper be made of glass? Shouldn't a slipper, by definition, be made of something fuzzy and, oh, _comfortable_ maybe? Not this thing. And not with a heel. It's got a heel. He's pretty sure that this is a new level of masochism.

But he's careful with it. Really careful. He _needs_ this thing for some reason.

Oh. Because...

Hmm.

Ahh, this foot! Dean blinks. It's a nice foot. So elegant and shapely. Nude toes. Nice touch. No paint to obscure the cute little picture of a dainty foot for this horrible footwear. And hell yes, that ankle, this leg.

Damn, Dean loves legs. Loves the way they have a flat plane on top, and this perfect curve below in the calf. How it bunches and tightens when this adorable foot shakes impatiently, points at him with a demanding big toe that jabs his shoulder.

Kinda forceful. Kinky.

He lets go of the "slipper" with one hand to run along that lovely, smooth leg. Just to the knee, he mentally promises himself. He's a gentleman, after all.

The foot kicks him.

"Okay, okay," he concedes, drawing his hand back. It's fine. This is just the opening salvo. When he gets the glass clog with the stiletto heel (he's done thinking of it as a "slipper." It rankles his common sense) on this foot, it'll be "game on." This is only the first step.

_Step_. Get it?

He tries to make good by leaning over, kissing that first fat knuckle of the toe that even now is waggling with anticipation.

Goddamn. It even _smells_ nice.

Awesome.

Dean lifts the glass shoe thing. He delicately slides it over the toes, pulling down until the length of it lines up with the heel. He pushes it on, but gently, so gently, because this is a gentle being and he can't risk breaking anything. He can't. He's gone through _so_ much goddamn trouble just to get this far, and this isn't even, technically, first base. But it'll be worth it. He knows.

It fits. It fits perfectly, of course it does.

Dean smirks. He leans in because this means he's found something. Maybe he's finally gonna get married. Settle down. Maybe he's marrying money, too, because who the fuck goes through the trouble of getting glass made into the shape of a shoe this big?

God. Okay, those stupid fairy tales have something. They got something right.

"Dean."

Dean looks up.

"Goddamn, Sam. You're beautiful."

Sam's got that look that says he knows. He pushes Dean's shoulder with the balls of his glass-clad foot. It's attached to a leg that's flounced in petticoats and some kind of off-the-shoulder blue gown.

"Yeah, I know," he says.

Dean's in awe. Sam's, like, covered in _glitter_ or something. He literally _shines_. It's adorable.

"Where'd you get the dress, dude?"

Sam shrugs. "Don't know. Don't think blue is my color though. Green maybe."

"Yeah, green would've matched your eyes."

"I can't tell if you're being serious or creepy." Sam cocks his head with a small smile and lifts the other foot up for the matching slipper. "Let's go, dude. My foot's getting cold."

"Oh, yes, Princess," Dean hurries to put the other shoe on. "Whaddayou think?"

Sam looks down, pressing the puffy gown flat with the sides of his arms so he can see his feet sparkle in the crazy footwear. He seems to like it. He turns his feet from side to side, admiring them.

"Perfect."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. So I guess that means you're the one."

"Hell _yes_ I'm the one." Dean loves the sound of that. He leans over Sam's lap, his chin on his arm. Sam's shiny sparkles are kinda mesmerizing. He just positively _glows_.

"I'm not sure how the hell I'm supposed to dance in these things," Sam admits. He runs a hand through Dean's hair with slow intimacy. It feels real nice.

"Dance? Is that how this is supposed to end?"

Sam shrugs. His shoulders are so animated in this dress. "I guess it doesn't have to." Sam leans down. They're nose to nose. Goddamn, Sam's just too fucking adorable, even if he's so...

* * *

"Dean!"

Dean snorts awake. Snorts _loudly. _ His head is hurting, Jesus, what the fuck?

"Dean, Christ, are you still alive?"

Sam is nose to nose, but at least the bastard has stopped shaking him.

"What? God, where's the fire?" His mouth tastes like cotton and the light around Sam from the cabin window is like a halo of doom. "Ugha," he complains and turns his head from the piercing rays that cause little pulsing explosions in the front of his head.

"Dean, it's like three in the afternoon."

Dean throws a hand over his face for protection. "So...?"

"So, dude, you shouldn't be on painkillers for your leg if you're gonna get drunk watching Disney movies. Bad mojo, man. I'm serious. It could kill you."

Dean slides his arm from his face just a little. Sam's got that _you should know better_ voice on, but there's maybe a little worry in there. He glances down at his leg. The damn thing is still in a cast. He's still holed up here in Bobby's cabin and Leviathan are still out in the world _eating_ people. Ugh. His leg. Goddammit.

"I was not getting drunk watching Disney movies..."

The empty bottle of jack on the coffee table means that he can't really deny the first part but...

Sam makes a little sound in the back of his throat. He finally smiles, just a little.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. God Sam. Why don't you...why don't you just...go for another fucking run or something." He tries to half turn his body back into the couch so he can maybe sleep off the fucking monster of a headache.

"Hmm. Not sure I'll be able to run in those glass slippers, dude. But I'll give it a try."

Sam pats his bum leg gently as Dean suddenly unducks his head and looks straight at his brother.

Sam laughs as he picks up the keys from the coffee table.

"I'm just gonna duck out to get my prince some pie. Call me if you need anything else."

Dean's jaw is open. He realizes it after the door closes.

Fucking _hell_.

_No more goddamn Disney movies!_


End file.
